


Watching it Crumble

by Dae_Kalina



Category: Son of Satan: The Mortal Coil
Genre: Anal Sex, Anniversary, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15920280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dae_Kalina/pseuds/Dae_Kalina
Summary: Gabriel, aka Grimsley Morne, has viewed everything bad that happens to his family and those around him as his fault. So when his lovers start arguing, he sees this as a sign of his own selfishness keeping them trapped in a relationship they do not want. Anticipating the end, he spirals down into self-destruction, resorting to old coping mechanisms.When Ramiel and Michael catch-on, they have to prove to him that he is more than worthy of their love, as well as persuade him to find healthier alternatives to dealing with the stress.





	Watching it Crumble

**Author's Note:**

> Content/trigger warning for mentions of self-harm and referenced past self-harm. Request for the work-in-progress game, Son of Satan: The Mortal Coil for Grimaugur. Grimsley Morne is Grimaugur's MC. I am the sole creator of the game, meaning I do own the characters of Ramiel and Michael as depicted within. However, the scenes and level of content depicted within this work are not going to be in the game. Hope you enjoy!

You exit the elevator in a hurry. Dinner is already late; you want to make sure Daniel gets to bed at a decent hour. That’s getting less and less likely by the minute. First you had been held up late at the precinct and then you had gotten a text from Ramiel asking you to pick up a few more groceries, One detour, and a great deal of red lights later, and you finally made it home, grocery bags in tow.

You’re not sure if Ramiel was able to get anything started, nor even what he plans on cooking from the list he had sent you. Hopefully most of the prep is done, or Daniel will be up for hours yet. The volume of noise that greets you as you open the door, breaking the barrier on the silencing spell, catches you off-guard, having expected pots and pans clanking, not a pair of furious voices.

“Oh please, you’re hardly an expert on good decisions,” Michael snaps. He stands, arms folded across his chest, glaring at Ramiel, his back to you as you enter.

Ramiel lounges on the couch, long legs draped over the arm, feet, covered in silk socks—one of which has a hole revealing a dark toe—kicking in the air lazily. He picks his head up to respond to Michael.

“I’m not the one who spent centuries picking fights for no good—” Ramiel stops in the middle of his sentence, catching sight of you and trying to sit up in a rush, unsuccessfully.

Michael snorts as Ramiel struggles to get off the couch. “No, you just broke Grim’s heart into little shards by sleeping with that fae,” he continues, still oblivious to your presence, oblivious to everything other than trying to get under Ramiel’s thick skin.

“Michael.” Ramiel’s voice is hard and sharp as he finally gets to his feet, sliding slightly on the bamboo wood floors. His whiskey eyes soften as he looks past Michael to meet your gaze.

“You got the groceries! That’s great.” The sudden change in tone is too quick to be natural, only drawing more attention to his previous intonation. As if it would distract you, Ramiel gives you a warm smile, but it’s still strained at the edges. Despite his best efforts, he isn’t fooling anyone.  

Michael whirls, guilt flashing across his features before he settles on a vaguely alarmed expression, teeth bared, lips curves up, eyes wide and body rigid. His attempt at cheeriness results in a combination of conflicting signals, the confusion the sole genuine component to his current façade. At his sides, his hand clench and unclench, struggling to determine an innocuous position.

“You’re home,” he says, finally deciding on folding his arms across his chest. Even then, his fingers drum against his arms, revealing the nervous energy thrumming through him.

“Stating the obvious, much?” Ramiel snipes as he slides around the smaller angel, coming towards you. The tall brunette drops a kiss on your forehead as he takes the bags of groceries from your frozen fingers. “I’ll go finish taking care of dinner.”

As he pulls away he pauses, brow wrinkling as he scrutinizes your expression. “Grimsley, we were just… having a bit of a debate. Nothing to be concerned with. You know how much I like to give Michael a _hard_ time. He makes it so easy.” Your Fallen lover places careful emphasis on his words, trying to make you crack a smile at the innuendo. Ramiel tosses in a wink for good measure, following the old human adage of ‘go big or go home.’

To appease him, you shape your mouth into a rictus, swallowing down the panic, stowing it for later to pull out and dissect at your leisure. Ramiel remains troubled looking, but he holds up the groceries, jingling the bags as if they contained treasure, seeming to accept your fixed smile at face value. Even after Falling he isn’t the most observant of people.

“Dinner will be done in a few, now that I’ve got everything. Thank you for picking up the groceries,” he adds. Doubt creeps into his words, but it’s not enough to keep him at your side.

That both hurts and relieves you. On the one hand, you don’t want him prying, digging behind your stoic wall and exposing the raw jumble of nerves that are currently torn and bleeding. On the other, he should be able to know what you need. You’ve been together for nearly a year and he knows you intimately. Or at least, you thought he knew you well enough to tell when you were being dishonest. Clearly you were mistaken on that front. 

Michael comes up to you after Ramiel enters the kitchen, speaking softly under the clatter of pots and pans. He wraps his arms around you, pressing his head into the crook of your neck. “Don’t mind that idiot,” he mumbles against your skin, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

One of Michael’s qualities you are coming to appreciate is his single-minded focus on you. Yet at the same time, there-in lies the core of the problem. This arrangement had been your idea, and while all three parties agreed to it, Michael and Ramiel always focus on you, never each other.

Tonight had demonstrated that there is still no love lost between them. There is no way this relationship will continue to last, and the idea of having to pick one of them—well, that isn’t possible.

Instead of surrendering to the despair threatening to pull you under, you raise an arm and awkwardly pat Michael’s back in what you hope he deems is a consoling manner until he pulls away.

“You go get cleaned up. I’ll help Ramiel with dinner,” he tells you, hands on his hips, trying to come off as authoritative.

You nod, unable to trust your voice to not betray you. The second Michael has his back turned on you, your grimace vanishes, face turning to stone. You knew this was going to happen. You knew that this happiness couldn’t last. People like you don’t deserve happiness. Michael and Ramiel are too different, and you will never be enough.

That’s why Daniel’s leaving. It why your nestmates were arguing. You aren’t a creature worthy of their love. Hell, your name says it all. Grim. It wasn’t a moniker you picked out; your fellow angels gave it to you. Who were you to reject the obvious? Better to embrace your unlovable nature. So Grimsley Morne you had become, dour archangel, a tool for Heaven to deploy as they see fit.

It’s all too much right now. You can feel the familiar urge welling up, but you remind yourself to wait. There’s shame behind the idea, but also a type of bleak satisfaction, the promise of at least temporary relief waiting. Not yet, though. You have to wait just a little longer, until everyone else is asleep. Until then you have to keep pretending that everything is going to be okay.

You know better. At least, soon, you’ll be able to take the edge off. You don’t have the right tools here, but there are 24-hour convenience stores, and you know the perfect place to hide your supplies. Secrecy is paramount to keeping up the illusion that everything is okay for as long as possible. It’s too addicting of an illusion to let go of quite yet.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two weeks since the argument. Two weeks that you’ve spent finding excuses to stay late at work—taking extra shifts, going through cold cases—anything that allows you to go home and fall straight into bed, avoiding having real conversations with anyone. Denial might only prolong the inevitable, but a drowning man will happily grasp at straws.

Besides, it’s easier to pretend that work is why you’re run-down. And the less you talk, the less likely anyone will discover the truth. The mornings are your time, with Daniel at school, and Michael and Ramiel at their respective jobs. There’s no one there to stop you, no one to stare in horror and repulsion as you carve new marks into your skin, almost crying as each cut reminds you that you’re still alive, each slice a penance and a release.

It’s Fall, which means it’s easy enough to get away with long shirts. Equally easy to shrug off any concerns about being tired by saying you are trying to save up some vacation days, preparing to take some time off to spend with your son and boyfriends over the holidays.

It’s only when Alice slams her hands on your desk that you realize you were zoning out. “Go. Home.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she narrows her light eyes, eyes that see more than you care for. It makes you glad you don’t share a locker-room with her. Those keen orbs would notice any slip-up, any marks that you accidentally bare. “Let your boyfriends get rid of some of that tension.” She jabs a finger in your face. “I mean it, Grimsley Morne. Leave now, or leave after I kick your ass, but either way, you have the weekend off, starting now.”

“All right, I’m going,” you tell her, holding your hands up in surrender. Arguing with Alice has never worked in your favor, so you reluctantly start packing up your desk, trying to dally as long as possible. Alice snorts, but returns to her desk, likely to catch up on the paperwork that she seems incapable of remaining current on.

After you’ve managed to restack the various sticky note pads on your desk, redo the paperclip chain Alice had started so the sizes alternate, and made everything in your drawers align to an invisible grid and still haven’t left, a crumpled ball of paper hits your head.  “Grimsley Morne, get out of here.” Alice holds up another ball of paper in a threatening manner, scowling menacingly.

You kick it into high gear, not wanting to arouse further suspicion by continuing to delay. Getting Alice curious would mean you have to monitor each and every motion. So far no one at the precinct seems to be aware of your self-harm—knowing them, if one knew then they all would know and they would have tried to stage some sort of intervention—and you would like to keep it that way. They’re detectives, however; the best way to keep them from discovering our shameful secret is to avoid spurring their curiosity in the first place.

All you have to do is hold it together for a few more months. The signs of deterioration grow more evident with each passing day, and you already have a deadline on your relationship with Daniel fizzling out. Once he’s out of sight, away at university, you’ll be out of mind. It’s not like you’re truly family, no blood bond tying him to you.

The tension around the house between Ramiel and Michael has been quiet, like the deceptively still water in a turbulent ocean, the undertow waiting to pull you out to sea where you’ll lose all sight of hope before drowning. You know better than to trust the apparent calm.

What was the human expression? A pipe-dream. That’s what this was. Angels like you don’t get to have everything. You should have known with the way your lover interact—or rather, don’t. They indulge your desires, but they are incapable of giving you what you truly need, which is a loving bond with both of them, without the jealousy, the arguing, or the inferiority and superiority complexes.

The rain that greets you as you step outside is apropos to your current mood. Slogging through the downpour, you get into your SUV and contemplate the merits of just sleeping in the vehicle for the night. Unfortunately, if Alice catches you, there will be no avoiding the interrogation to follow.

So, reluctantly, you turn on the vehicle, careful to drive a safe two miles under the speed-limit and stop at every yellow light. It still doesn’t take nearly long enough to get back to the apartment building your father had given to you, thoughts remaining a dismal quagmire that sucks you in every time you try to escape. 

Once you pull into the underground parking for your building, you debate taking a nap. A quick glance out the window and a slow-blinking red light reminds you that there are cameras one can access from the penthouse—as a security measure—and that it’s entirely possible that you’ll be spotted by one of the people who live with you.

Another glance around informs you that Ramiel is already home, his ridiculously expensive car—another gift from your father, though ostensibly it’s to maintain Ramiel’s cover as a high-profile defense attorney—parked crooked in his designated spot. Waiting won’t do you any good, then, as Ramiel seems to have a sixth sense for knowing when you arrive.

At least, he seems to have an unnatural talent for knowing when you are about to walk through the door when he’s not embroiled in an argument with Michael. The latter seems to be a more and more common occurrence, the two of them seeming to be busy speaking in angry whispers or sharp glances whenever you catch them both awake. Even with your back turned, or in another room, you can feel the hostility being exchanged. To your face they attempt to play nice, but there’s a hollowness to each touch, each gesture, and an insincerity to the pleasantries they exchange.

You trudge up the stairs to the lobby, shoes squeaking on the polished marble floors. The security guard tips her hat to you—Fiona, you think her name is—as you go over to the penthouse elevator. The doors slide open, revealing an opulent interior. A press of your hand to a plate inside the door gives you authorization to press the P button.

Once the doors closed, you can feel your anxiety building, like the walk to the executioner’s block. The ride is over too quick, and you’re left facing the same hallways that you had hurried down two weeks ago in blissful oblivion. This time you have no such fantasies, no delusional expectations of what awaits you on the other side.

This time when you open the door, you’re not surprised to hear Ramiel’s raised voice. You brace yourself, wondering what the pretext of their argument is this time.

And find Ramiel waving wildly at the floor-to-ceiling windows, no Michael in sight. It takes a moment for you to realize he’s on the phone, and clearly not pleased with the person on the other end. That gives you a little wiggle room, some of the tightness in your chest letting up.

You can’t take a nap, or he’ll worry, and wait until you show signs of waking up before pestering you about what has you so exhausted. The best option is to find a way to busy yourself, granting you a reason not to talk.  

The obvious answer is to start making dinner. Heading to the kitchen after shucking your jacket and shoes, you rummage through the fridge, taking stock of what you have on hand. Maybe you should make pasta. Simple, easy, not overly complicated but you can use the near-constant stirring the food requires as an excuse to remain isolated in the kitchen. If you’re lucky—which you know you aren’t, but fortune might yet smile upon you—Ramiel will be on the phone for some time, possibly until dinner, and then maybe again afterwards. That would be bearable.

Your luck doesn’t hold, Ramiel hanging up with a flourish shortly after the water has started to boil. He saunters up to the kitchen island, giving you a weary grin. “I mention how much I hate bailing demons out of trouble? If I weren’t certain they would be more trouble inside a jail cell, I’d leave them to rot.”

You utter a noncommittal grunt, trying to appear busy stirring the sauce with one hand and the noodles with the other, which devolves into an alternating stir with your left, stir with your right, and repeat cycle rather than concurrent stirring.

“You’re home early. Finally catch up on all that paperwork that’s been keeping you so late?” The question seems innocuous, but it slithers beneath your skin, burrowing into your fears and shining the light on them.

“Alice wanted to make sure I got some time with my boyfriends,” you reply, dodging the question and hoping the steam from the pot of noodles covers up any imperfections in your mask. The idea of spending time with Ramiel and Michael should make you happy. A whole weekend off, no rolling out of bed at two in the morning or sifting through files from cases older than the current roster of officers, just you and your two loves should be the ingredients for a perfect weekend.

Instead, it feels like an acceleration of the already doomed ship you’re on, circumstances pointing the prow right at the iceberg and opening all the engines to full.

“Careful, if you sound too happy this new name of yours might just not fit,” Ramiel teases, resting his chin on his hand and watching you. His gaze feels too intimate, too familiar, like he can sense there’s more you’re not telling him.

 “Wouldn’t want that,” you respond in lieu of acknowledging the implied question. You have to bite back the urge to snap that your name isn’t new; it’s as old as Ramiel’s Fall. The last thing you want is to push him away prematurely, preferring to cling to each moment as your life crumbles around you.

“Daniel texted. Said he’ll be home in about thirty minutes.” Ramiel leans back, stretching so that his dress shirt, untucked as it always is the second he gets into the penthouse, rides up, revealing the sharp V of his hips and a glimpse of a trail of dark, curly hairs.

His body didn’t used to have that sharp definition, nor be quite so skinny in Heaven. At least, you don’t remember him like that, from the peeks you had snuck when you were sure he would think nothing of it. Clearly this relationship with you and Michael isn’t aiding his health.

The cheeky grin on his face vanishes as he sees something. Alarmed, you glance down at yourself, silently cursing when you catch sight of the thin line of red on your white sleeve. You should have chosen something darker, but you hadn’t wanted to call too much attention to yourself with a sudden change in wardrobe. Now the decision was coming back to haunt you.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, moving around the counter with a speed only those possessed of longer legs than your own could manage. 

“It’s nothing,” you try to brush it off, furious at yourself for not considering that the steam and repetitive motion might open up one of the fresh cuts. You hadn’t wanted to tape a bandage over them, afraid that Alice might notice a discrepancy in the way your sleeves rested on your arms—she could be annoyingly observant about even the smallest details at times, even if the bandage was only a few millimeters thick.

Now you’re seeing the downside to that decision.

Ramiel grasps your arm by the wrist, ignoring your attempts to reclaim your appendage. His grip is gentle, but unrelenting as he pulls you to him, puzzled by your reluctance.  

“It’s just a scratch. I can take care of it,” you tell him desperately. He can’t see your skin. It’s true your arms are relatively clean, as you have been trying to restrict the urge to areas that are less noticeable, but there are still too many marks at different stages of healing to explain away with ease.

“You shouldn’t be using Grace in your shell,” Ramiel counters, starting to roll up your sleeve with his other hand. You flinch and brace yourself, preparing for the imminent fallout.

Nothing. Ramiel turns your arm over, exposing the underside and a patchwork of lines, one of which is a bright crimson as it seeps blood. His expression is blank for a moment, before he meets your eyes.

Your heart pounds in your chest. He has to notice the edges are too clean for an accidental cut. He has to know that they’re deliberate. One could be explained away, an accident; the matching lines, further along in the process of healing, can’t be.

Instead of heated words, or accusations, Ramiel gives you a wink. “Besides, if you healed yourself of every little cut, then I couldn’t do this,” he says, mustering a grin that lacks its usual strength.

You remain frozen, terrified by this unfamiliar and unanticipated reaction. Yelling, censure, disappointment—these are what you expected. Not tenderness. Not slightly strained flirting.

Still holding your gaze with his whiskey-colored eyes, Ramiel leans down and kisses the cut, heedless of the way the crimson paints his lips. A prickle of power brushes across the wound, but it doesn’t extend beyond that. He’s discovered that he can use his corrupted Grace on your shell, but he’s always cautious with it, always careful not to cause you harm.

That he would risk using his Grace for such a minor wound makes you uneasy, wary of what he suspects. What else did he pick up from the brief use of Grace?

“There. All better now,” he murmurs, reaching up and brushing the back of one forefinger against your cheek.   

You pull your sleeve down, past your hand, and reach up, wiping the blood off his lips. The lurid color on his tan skin was too foreboding to stand a moment longer, and your sleeve is already stained with blood anyways. _Just like your hands_ , a voice whispers. You ignore it.

Ramiel leans in, and kisses your forehead. “I love you, Gabriel. Grimsley. Whatever name you bear, I love you with all my heart,” he murmurs, nudging your chin up with the forefinger that had caressed your cheek. The nasty voice speaks up. _All his heart, leaving no room for Michael_.

You meet his eyes, and maybe he sees the desperation in them. Maybe he just loves you. Either way, he leans down further until he finds your lips, coaxing them open with little nips as you remain wooden in his arms, shocked and tormented, not understanding where you stand or how you should respond, or what his reaction means.

The familiar taste of his mouth makes up your stalling mind for you, encouraging you chase the taste, leaning into Ramiel, hands fisting in his shirt, suddenly desperate for this intimacy. This might be your last chance, the last time you can kiss him before everything crumbles beyond repair. Your lungs cry for air but you refuse to heed their call. If you die like this, it would almost be a good death.

“Just because some of us do actual work doesn’t mean you get to hog Grimsley.” The petulant voice has you starting guiltily, pulling away from the consuming kiss, panting as your oxygen-starved body tries to pull in great gulps of air. Ramiel’s chest blocks most of your view, but you can hear footsteps draw closer, sharp and impatient.

“Consider it warming him up, Michael dearest,” Ramiel says, his voice breathy and rough, his pupils wide with desire.  

Ramiel shifts, not prying your hands off, but moving to the side. Michael slides into the almost non-existent space between the pair of you, flushed with a combination of irritation and aroused. It’s not an unusual expression to see on his face, but it’s the first time it feels like a punch to the gut.

Michael doesn’t want this. Ramiel doesn’t want this. They both want you, yes, but sharing with each other—they hate it. Which means they’ll come to hate you for putting them in this position as well.   

“I’ve missed this,” Michael admits to you, his lips hovering over yours as you try to rein in the anxiety filling your veins with an icy fire.

He steals any potential response from your lips as he closes his mouth over yours. Objectively he’s still a terrible kisser, despite having done this many times before. The angle is never quite right at first, noses bumping, teeth clashing, too much saliva involved. It’s gotten better, but after being kissed by a Fallen who knows damn well how to use those smirking lips, the difference is more pronounced.

And even that comparison, idle and unbidden, reminds you why everything is turning to pillars of salt around you. Michael and Ramiel aren’t two sides of the same coin; they are two sides of two different types of currency that can’t exist in the same plane without catastrophic effects.

Michael pulls back, bites his lower lip, and then darts in for another fleeting kiss. “You seem to be somewhere else,” he grumbles, leaning back and looking into your eyes, his own the normal black patina of a proper angel.

Fortune, apparently, hasn’t abandoned you completely as you latch onto an excuse. You’ve always been good at thinking on your feet, and even with your mind and emotions struggling to handle the revelation that your relationship is a ticking time bomb, an answer comes quickly.

“I’m thinking that I need to make sure dinner doesn’t burn,” your respond, hastily letting go of Ramiel’s shirt and squeezing between your lovers. The noodles aren’t sticking together yet, and a quick stir of the sauce reveals that there’s no burning. You dump in some olive oil into the noodles before turning back to your nestmates, menacing them with your wooden spoon.

“Out of the kitchen, before you cause dinner to be ruined.” That’s one mess you won’t have on your head.

Still mumbling, Michael exits the kitchen. Ramiel lingers a moment, his expression inscrutable. “I’ll set the table,” he finally volunteers, puttering around you, opening drawers and cabinets as he pulls out plates and silverware.

Relief makes your chest feel light, but it’s quickly followed by a wave of guilt. You have to be more careful. It’s unlikely either of your lovers will discover your stash of supplies; as angels, they don’t require the same maintenance and upkeep as you do in your shell, and you’re careful to make them seem as innocent as possible.

Yet Ramiel is not the same fool he was prior to his Fall, and it would be wise to take a few more precautions lest he find irrefutable evidence of your self-destructive tendencies. If he doesn’t hate you already for forcing this unbalanced triad on him, he surely would after learning of your despicable habit. How he missed it earlier you don’t know, but even he can catch on if too many of the wrong clues fall into his lap.

 

* * *

 

No one brings up your strange behavior at dinner, Daniel wolfing down food while the other angels poke around their plates, eating mostly to be polite. Afterwards you insist on doing the dishes, knowing that noise of the water will excuse you from conversation.

When you finish, Ramiel is once again on his phone, and Michael is reading a scroll with an intense frown. You debate the wisdom of joining them for a moment. However, at the heart of it all it seems you are a masochist, because you can’t resist their pull. Running straight towards the fire, knowing you’ll be burned; that’s your style.

So you sit on the couch opposite Michael, tangling your legs with his. Ramiel pauses in his roaming to perch on the armrest, threading his fingers through your short hair as he speaks in low tones into the earbuds. It feels nice, just like this. A pretty dream that you would be content to live within for the rest of your days.  

Just ignore that the only thing connecting the loves of your life is your body, and it’s the perfect way to spend an evening. You’re practiced enough in self-deception to close your eyes, indulging in the warmth surrounding you.

At some point you must have drifted off, as you stir awake to the sensation of being lifted into strong arms. A familiar voice tells you to go back to sleep, and you happily oblige, snuggling against the firm chest that smells of cedar and woodsmoke, a scent you associate with being safe and warm.

 

* * *

 

The weekend passes in a state of constant tension after that. You never get a moment alone: Michael insists on joining you in your shower while Ramiel deals with something from work, Ramiel reads quietly in a corner while you do some work on your laptop and ignore the texts from Alice threatening to change your password and lock you out of the system. One or both always have an eye on you.

Neither of them broaches the topic you’ve been dreading, however. They don’t even snap at each other.

It feels like the calm before the storm, too idyllic, too quiet to last for long. So when Monday comes around, you return to work with relief. But even there you’re thwarted. One of the other men is always in the locker room when you are, and outside of it Alice seems to be constantly at your side. Again, no one says anything, but you’re starting to feel like you’re suffocating.

If they know, they should just get it off their chests. Tell you how repulsive you are, what a failure you are, how you can’t even take care of yourself so how are you supposed to serve and protect others?

Sometimes you catch glances between your squad-mates, and your paranoia ratchets up a notch. Any day now. Any day it will all come tumbling down, making the tower of Babble look like child’s play.

Your arms itch and burn, but you dare not try to stem the greater need by scratching them, leaving behind long pink lines in lieu of cuts. The motion would draw too much attention, make them concerned for your health. Friday seems so far away, your hope that your co-workers might leave early the only chance of respite.

 

* * *

 

Friday arrives, but everyone seems intent on working late. At least, until Alice sits on your desk again. “So, a little birdie told me you forgot to ask for some time off. Since you need to use or lose some of your vacation days, I filed them for you. Now get out of here, and be ready to share the details when you come back. I live vicariously through your love-life.” She sighs, and fans herself.

You stare at Alice, unsure of what she means. The detective rolls her eyes. “Grimsley Morne. You forgot your anniversary, didn’t you.” It’s phrased more like an accusation than a question.

The ball of guilt in your stomach expands. It couldn’t—a quick glance at the desktop calendar confirms the date. Had it been a year already? Was that something your lovers would want to celebrate? Angels didn’t have the same kind of formal courting steps that humans practice. Could you maintain a false smile through it, all the while analyzing each word, each movement to determine how much longer this polyamory could last before imploding?

“You make your boyfriends look good, and having met both of them, that’s saying something,” Alice mutters, pulling out her phone.

“Okay, there’s a florist on 7th still open, and they should have some cards. Now get! And maybe detour by that little shop on King’s Street, the one with the bustiers in the window. They’ve got a great selection of toys and clothing, and they stay open late. I’m sure you can find something for your boys.” She winks, and scribbles down two addresses on a sticky note before pressing the note to your forehead.

With her cajoling, you pack up in a fugue, only returning to full capacity when you’re outside. Peeling the sticky note off your forehead, you crumple it up, but slip it into a pocket rather than tossing it in the rubbish bin.

Anniversary. Given the way Michael and Ramiel had been at each other’s throats a few weeks ago, there isn’t a relationship to celebrate. You haven’t been intimate with them since then, either, apart from the occasional kiss or Michael’s new habit of seeming to always try to join you in the shower. In the case of the latter, getting on your knees was as much about your selfish desire to please Michael as it was to keep him too distracted to notice all the new marks on your body. So far, it had worked well.

It is a small mercy Ramiel has not caught you in a state of undress, but your luck will run out sooner rather than later. It always does. One of them is going to catch you, and the resulting explosion will obliterate the threads holding you together.

The trip home feels shorter and shorter the more you dread it, the elevator ascending faster than you remember, and even the hallway seems to shrink as you trudge down it.

Your hand trembles as you put the key in the lock, feeling the wards drop as they recognize you. It’s quiet and dark on the other side of the door, and you let out a breath. It appears that Ramiel and Michael aren’t home yet. Or Daniel. Frowning, you fish out your phone and open up the texts.

 _Hey Dad! Reminder that tonight is the movie marathon at Alex’s. We’re all going to crash there! Love you!_  

Well, that’s one mystery solved, though it opens up one of your festering fears. How soon will he stop sending these check-in texts? College is only a few months away. He has friends of his own, a life separate from yours. Before long he won’t want anything to do with the grim and dour angel who was ordered to raise him. Why would he? He has his whole life ahead of him, and Grim is a reminder of some of the worst parts, like the death of his mother.

“Grimsley.” You freeze and swallow hard. So much for taking advantage of being alone for the first time in a week to add a few new marks to your body.

Both of them are here. The shaking returns, and it feels like you’re walking towards your slaughter as you set your bag down by the door and slink towards the living room, where the voices had emanated from.

Angel eyes reflect light in a way human eyes don’t, leaving you with two dim shapes and two pairs of inhuman eyes staring eerily at you in the dark. “We need to talk,” Ramiel says.

Even without speaking you can tell them apart by the little you can see. Michael sits tense and proper, his pale skin and hair almost glowing with the light filtering through the windows. Ramiel, on the other hand, blends smoothly with the shadows, but by squinting you make out sprawling limbs and the loose posture.

Dread slithers up your throat, coating your mouth with tar. Slowly you sink onto the footstool facing the pair of them. Here it is. There’s only one thing those words can spell: the end.

“You’re hurting yourself again!” The accusation comes from Michael, and it catches you by surprise, leaving you speechless for a few seconds. That’s what this is about? You had thought… well, Michael opening with that statement doesn’t mean that the break-up is off the table. That could still be on the agenda.

“Michael.” Ramiel’s voice is calm and controlled, contrasting with the chaotic sprawl of his long limbs. There’s motion and you flinch, but it’s only Ramiel reaching over to touch Michael’s thigh. The smaller archangel bristles, but slowly relaxes under the touch.

“Sorry. I know we said no yelling, but… I forget myself,” Michael mumbles, covering Ramiel’s hand with one of his.

It’s surprising to see them touch so casually, and a new thought occurs to you. Maybe you had been wrong. Michael and Ramiel weren’t disgusted with each other; they were tired of having to include you. Tired of having the dour, grim angel weighing them down. 

Bile rises in your throat, and you feel nauseous. How long had they been humoring you? Was it ever real? Or had they been indulging the baby of the nest? The whole time. This had to be their feelings the entire time. Thinking that they could love you after everything you’ve done, after you’ve torn apart the nest—how delusional had you been?

“ENOUGH!”

Your head jerks up, meeting a pair of furious eyes looming over you. “You are not a burden on us,” Ramiel croaks, his voice strained but at a more normal decibel level. “We are not indulging anyone but ourselves, because we love you.”

“For once, I agree emphatically with everything Ramiel is saying,” Michael adds, getting to his feet as well. It’s not as impressive a measure as Ramiel standing up, but compared to your seated height, Michael too towers over you.

“You don’t have to lie, anymore,” you tell them, head hanging in defeat. You’re tired of the lies, tired of trying to fake being okay. The sooner they leave you alone, the sooner you can wallow in your own self-destruction.

“No one is lying,” Ramiel speaks softly, his eyes softening, returning to their whiskey-colored human appearance.

“But we do need to have a talk,” Michael growls, arms folding across his chest, chin tucked low as he attempts to glower at you. “I had thought this behavior had been stopped long ago. Israfel was under that impression as well, when we talked to him.” The disapproval in his voice has you reflexively wrapping your arms around yourself, trying to curl away from his disdain.

Ramiel sighs. Your taller lover drops to his knees in front of you, bringing himself down to your level. “What Michael means—” he spares a scathing glance towards the other archangel, “—is that we are worried about you. I… I had no idea that this was a reoccurring habit until I brought it up with Michael.”

“How did you know?” The words barely slip out from between your numb lips as you curl tighter, trying to hide your scars, trying to shield yourself from their censure.

“I… I wasn’t sure. I knew something was off—”

“ _We_ knew something was off,” Michael interrupts, sour at not being included by Ramiel.

“We knew something was off, when you went a whole week without letting either of us touch you.” The dry note in Ramiel’s voice leads you to believe that Michael had been clueless, but his willingness to allow Michael to butt in lifts your spirits. It’s a terrible thing, as it only means you’ll have farther to sink when they crush your hope.

“We thought it was work-related, given your late hours, but when you came home early last week—”

“You saw.” Ramiel huffs out a puff of air as you cut across him.

“Yes. And if both of you would let me finish talking before leaping in, we may actually progress beyond a retelling of past events,” he says, raising a hand and resting it on your thigh. His touch is warm, the hand heavy on your leg. It’s reassuring, more-so than you care to admit.

Michael grumbles and rocks back on his heels, but otherwise remains quiet.

“I wasn’t prepared for that,” Ramiel admits, his gaze roving over your body, as if he could see underneath your clothes to the new lines crisscrossing your legs, thicker and more numerous than the light scattering of lines on your arms.

“I should have been though. I should have seen the signs.” There’s blame in his voice, but it’s directed inwards, not at you. He leans forward, resting his forehead on your crossed arms.

This time, when he starts talking again, his voice is softer, choked with emotions. “There’s a part of Hell that only demons Lucifer clears personally are allowed in. In it are the Fallen who couldn’t cope with losing everything. Lucifer tries his best, but… they have no hope, and more than one of them have resorted to self-harm in an attempt to feel something real or to punish themselves for what they have done. It is… horrible, and heart-breaking, a room of despair so profound it fills your lungs and steals your breath.”

He goes silent. After a few moments you speak. “What does this have to do with me?” you ask, staring down at the top of his dark head. His hair is falling out of the band he uses to keep it out of his face, obscuring his face behind dark waves.

“What wrongs do you believe you have done that would justify destroying yourself like this?” Ramiel lifts his head, eyes bright with unshed tears.

Your breath catches, the naked hurt and vulnerability sending a spike of self-loathing through you. You couldn’t even hurt yourself right, spreading the pain to those you loved.

“Specifically, this time,” Michael clarifies, voice strained. Your gaze flicks up, and he too appears to be on the verge of crying. “Because there was always a reason before, even if they were terrible ones. Ramiel Fell, I pulled away. The… the Wrath of God incident—nothing that was your fault but things you punished yourself for anyways.”

His voice breaks, and he has to look away. “I thought—Israfel and I thought—we had a pattern for what would trigger you. We thought we could protect you from yourself.” He swallows, his body quivering.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Before, you never really talked about it. Michael had walked in, seen what was going on, been more furious than usual, and the next thing you knew you had Israfel checking you daily for any new marks. There hadn’t really been a conversation. Of course, with Israfel, there never needed to be. He saw so much, much more than either of your other nestmates.

But if you don’t say _something_ this time, you will lose both your lovers. So you force the words out in a cracked whisper. “The argument.”

Ramiel’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “The argument?” he asks.

A surge of irritation hits you. “Two weeks ago? You and Michael, at each other’s throats,” you snap. You hadn’t imagined that.

“That?” Michael sounds incredulous and throws his arms into the air. “That was us trying to decide what to do for our anniversary. You know, today? It’s a big deal. Or, so, you know, I’ve heard.” By the end of his sentence he’s blushing and fumbling, unsure if he’s on the right track.

Ramiel leans forward, pressing his head into your stomach, his lips brushing against your folded arms. “Please,” Ramiel’s voice is muffled, but you can feel the words as much as hear them, the low tones vibrating through your body.  “Please don’t… please don’t ever hurt yourself because we are a pair of idiots.”

You lean back, trying to get some separation from Ramiel. “Neither of you want this,” you bite out, bitterness dripping from every syllable. “But you let me force you into it.”

Something warm and wet hits your arms. “Is that what you think?” Michael demands, striding towards you, face twisted in fury, an emotion he’s very familiar with. “After everything we’ve been through, you think we’re just playing along to appease you?”

Ramiel’s tears drip steadily onto your arms, his hand squeezing your thigh almost painfully hard, the thumb digging in right over your femoral artery.  

Michael is standing behind Ramiel now, eyes shining with Grace as his temper gets the better of him. “We don’t get along perfectly, that’s true. But we are committed to you, and we’re happy as is. So don’t you dare go blaming yourself for something that isn’t going to happen, and wouldn’t be your fault if it did! Which it won’t, so for all that is good, stop hurting yourself!”

Typical Michael, trying so hard to reassure you but rather than digging anyone out, he just keeps flinging the dirt back in. At least he tries.

Ramiel lifts his head, slowly prying your arms apart. His calloused fingers roll the sleeve up your left arm, past your elbow. Rough lips trace over the marks, but he doesn’t pay them special attention, giving the same focus to the unblemished skin, accepting the scars as part of you without turning them into a strange fascination. 

“Every time you cut yourself, you might as well cut both of us too,” he murmurs, hoarse but steady. “If you think yourself unloved, then we have failed. If you think yourself unworthy, then we have still failed you.”

“So if you feel like hurting yourself, don’t. Pick up one of those human contraptions and call one of us. Let us take care of you.” Michael’s words are softer now, tinged with remorse and contrition.

Ramiel turns his head and nuzzles your shirt over your stomach.. “Can you promise us this?” he asks, warm breath tickling your skin through the fabric. 

“I—” Once more you find yourself having difficulty speaking, the words clinging to the inside of your throat. The rush of emotions you’ve gone through in a short time has your head spinning, and Ramiel’s position is not helping your higher thought processes.

Now that you’ve been assured that they aren’t going to leave you, your body is reminding you that you haven’t let them touch you in two weeks. You might have gotten Michael off, but it hadn’t been a mutual exchange. That would have been too risky. Now the risk is gone, and your body craves their touch.

Ramiel pulls back, face streaked with drying tear trails. Still, his mouth starts to tug up. Bastard knows exactly what his proximity is doing to you. “If you can promise us this, then we can try to salvage this anniversary thing. Michael has been going on about it for weeks.” The hand resting on your thigh sneaks towards your stomach, stirring up a trail of embers in its wake, and fanning your libido to life.

“And if I can’t?” It’s a legitimate question, but it comes out more provocative than intended.

Whiskey-eyes hold your gaze, their depths pulling you in. “At least promise us that you’ll _try_. None of us are perfect. We all have our flaws, our faults. But we can try to be better, and when we think we can’t be, then we let others help us.” Ramiel turns his head, meeting Michael’s gaze.

The other archangel nods his head slowly, before turning to look at you. “You let _us_ help you,” Michael reiterates. “Come on, _pinna_ ,” he coaxes, reaching out a hand and cupping your cheek, a move you know he picked up from Ramiel. “Let’s not waste this night.”

“I promise I will try,” you say. It doesn’t cost you anything to try, and in exchange for a few words, you get everything that matters—at least for the moment. And right now, the immediate present is as far as you can think, feeling compelled to touch both of your lovers, to re-familiarize yourself with them.

What you aren’t expecting is the way Michael’s eyes light up. “Good,” he says, and waves a hand. The room is suddenly illuminated with hundreds of flickering candles, a wide assortment of scents trying to compete for dominance with each other.

And then a shower of rose petals starts to cascade down, casting strange shadows as Michael looks smug. “I bet you thought I wouldn’t know what to do,” he challenges, sounding irrepressibly proud.

Ramiel starts to shake against you. Concerned, you glance down, but the snort that escapes him lets you know he’s trying to contain laughter, not tears.

“Michael, sweetheart,” you start, wincing as one of the rose petals lands on a candle and catches on fire. “You don’t want to burn down the apartment.”

Michael looks around, and then panics as he realizes that the rose petals have, for the most part, become little balls of fire. With another, far less dignified, wave of his arms, the petals vanish, leaving behind a whiff of lightly toasted rose and the strange mixture of candles, still burning merrily.

“I’m sorry,” Ramiel chokes out, lifting his head. “I had to see what would happen.” There’s genuine mirth in his eyes, and it warms you.

“Always a troublemaker,” you comment fondly, finally reaching out and removing his hair tie, letting the strands loose and combing through them.

“The best kind,” Ramiel agrees, and the way he says it has you swallowing hard, your body hard and begging for attention.

You’re not the only one aware of your predicament. “On your feet,” Ramiel orders, hands sliding up underneath the hem of you shirt, ignoring your lower body for the moment.

You stand up, which doesn’t change much thanks to Ramiel’s towering height. He’s rucks the shirt up, exposing your lean stomach and a trail of pale hairs.

His nose slides up through the mess of curls, gliding his lips over your body, like he had earlier with your arms, experiencing the sensation of you against his lips.

There’s a loud screech from behind you. A glance over your shoulder reveals Michael shoving the footstool out of the way so he can stand behind you. Satisfied there’s enough room, Michael turns around and comes up behind you. Even through two pairs of jeans you can feel the press of his arousal. A moan slips out of your lips, as you wonder who will take you first.

Michael smirks, and presses his lips to the side of your neck, nibbling on the skin before sucking on it, trying to leave behind a different set of marks from the ones you have left on your body.

“Michael, pants,” Ramiel barks as he gets up one knee, sliding your shirt higher. Michael makes a token protestation at being ordered around, but his hands eagerly slide forward around your waist, his chin settling in the crook of your neck so he can see.

The archangel doesn’t immediately pop the button of your fly, instead sliding a hand over the front of your jeans, a possessive weight to the touch. “As much as I enjoyed your mouth on me,” he whispers in your ear, toying with the zipper pull, “I’ve missed this as well.”

You’re saved from trying to come up with an appropriate response as Ramiel rolls the long-sleeve shirt up to your collar bone, getting to his feet as he does so. “Arms up,” he instructs. Hastily you do so, and Ramiel tugs it off, baring your torso.

“Good,” he purrs, and bends down to capture your lips. You gasp into his mouth as Michael’s fingers start to undo your pants, teasing the still trapped flesh as he starts to slide the jeans down your legs. His roaming hand is joined by one of Ramiel’s larger ones, the two of them tracing over your straining length.

You can feel Ramiel’s smile against your lips as he pulls away. “Eager, aren’t we?” he asks, slipping a finger inside the elastic waistband and circling the tip. Of their own volition your hips jump forward, seeking more of that familiar touch, but Ramiel moves his hand away. “I don’t think so,” he scolds, moving his lips along your cheek.

“It’s our anniversary, and since you seem to have forgotten, that makes you our present. Which means we get to take our time unwrapping you,” he murmurs into your ear as your jeans pool around your ankles.

A shiver courses through you, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip to help restrain the groan of pleasure. You missed this, missed the way the two of them work in tandem to reduce you to a mess of pleasure and incoherent noises. It is no wonder that the idea of never feeling them surrounding you like this again had driven you to such extreme measures.

One thing you have come to realize living in this shell is the curse of immortality. Combined with what can be perfect recall, at least when you don’t archive memories, every little mistake, everything that has gone wrong over the course of your life—even when you don’t realize it at first, as with the Fall of your father—feels fresh and immediate, not at all diminished by the passage of time. 

“Hey, _pinna_ , come back to us.” You refocus on Ramiel’s face, his brow wrinkled, eyes flitting with concern across your face. Some of your desire has faded, your mind whirling around, dredging up dark thoughts once more.

“Still here,” you respond, feeling drained and out-of-sorts.  

“Barely,” Michael grumbles. “Don’t know where your mind was at, but you’ve gone and ruined all the work we’ve done,” he continues.

Ramiel rolls his eyes, an easy grin gracing his lips, and the lines in his forehead vanishing. “Well, Michael, given that Grimsley was so keen on trying to distract you this week, why don’t you return the favor?” Ramiel tugs on your underwear until it slides down to join the jeans, leaving you nude while both of them remain fully clothed.  

“I have missed the taste of him,” Michael admits, abandoning your back to come around to your front.

Ramiel glances over him, arching an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should take off your pants first, too. That’s starting to look painful.” Michael scoffs.

“You’re one to talk,” he says. Ramiel darts his eyes to you, and then back to Michael.

“Why don’t you let me help,” he offers in a low voice. Michael, who seems to be obtuse at the best of times, grins.

“Going to put your mouth where the money is?” His smile wavers. “That’s the saying, right?”

“The second-guessing yourself isn’t nearly so sexy,” Ramiel says with a sigh, and then grabs Michael by the nape of his neck and pulls him into a kiss.

You feel more of your blood rush south at the sight of them kissing in front of you, Michael trying to assert control but losing to the skill and height of Ramiel. They part, panting slightly. Michael looks over to you, his cheeks pink.

“Did you like that?” he asks, voice soft with uncertainty.

It’s your turn to pull him to you, chasing the faint taste of Ramiel into Michael’s mouth. He moans, pulling away only when you start to feel light-headed.

Then he pulls his shirt off, and kicks off the jeans and briefs that you assume Ramiel must have been divesting him of during the kiss. You had been too distracted to notice. The bare expanse of Michael’s body calls to you, a pulse of desire striking you forcibly as you see the clear evidence of just how much he wants you.

At this rate, you don’t think you’ll need him to blow you to get you back to where you were prior to your mind wandering off.

“You both flush so pretty,” Ramiel comments, reaching out and stroking lightly over Michael. Michael bites down hard on his lower lip, hands clenched tight at his sides, surrendering to Ramiel’s touch. Ramiel’s pants are open, but he’s still fully clothed. Something about the contrast between Michael’s and yours vulnerability and Ramiel’s state of dress has you shifting on your feet, aching for some relief.

Ramiel catches the movement, his smile turning low and dangerous. “I think our _pinna_ is ready for a reward,” he purrs. Then he moves away, and you reflexively reach for him, an irrational panic filling you. Maybe you aren’t quite as fine as you are pretending to be, yet.

Ramiel catches your hand, bringing it to his mouth so he can brush a kiss across the back of it. “I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures you. A soft thud reminds you of your other lover, and you glance down to see Michael on his knees.

Only when he knows he has your attention does Michael lean forward, parting his pouty lips to take just the tip of you into his mouth. You shudder at the warm heat. This is good, but not quite what you’re craving.

Your thoughts scatter as Michael takes a deep breath through his nose, and then leans forward, taking you further in than he has ever been able to before. At the same time, Ramiel slips your fingers between his lips, and sucks, hard.

A noise escapes you as your legs start to buckle. Ramiel doesn’t miss a beat, holding you up with one arm. “Michael, a moment,” he says, slipping your fingers from his mouth. You’re still trying to recover from the sensory overload, sagging weakly against the Fallen, secretly reveling in the ease with which he holds you up. To go from preparing to never feel any of these sensations again to having both of them put their mouths on you simultaneously has you giddy.  

“I think Grim is going to need a little more support,” Ramiel murmurs, his fingers tangling through the light curls above your groin, the backs of his knuckles dragging teasingly against your length.

“Why don’t you get on your hands and knees, love?” the tall Fallen suggests, before tracing over one of your ear piercings with his tongue.

“Yes,” you squeeze out, heart pounding, palms sweating. It’s not your first time with them, but there’s something invigorating and nerve-wracking about doing it for the first time after resigning yourself to never being in this position again. Is this the equivalent of make-up sex? You didn’t exactly fight with them, but in a way, you suppose it is. 

The wood floor is hard on your bare knees, but that little bit of pain is good. It reminds you that this is real, that this is happening. Michael cups your face, now on your level, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “It’s so hard to decide if I want you to come in my mouth or if I want to see these gorgeous lips of yours wrapped around me,” he murmurs.

The words go straight to your dick. Out of everything Michael is picking up, dirty talk was not one you expected him to be good at. There’s something about hearing one of the most up-tight angels you know speaking in terms too filthy for polite company that makes your mouth go dry and your blood run hot.

The sound of a belt-buckle hitting the floor, followed by the sound of fabric, has you craning your head to the side. Ramiel’s dark skin is painted in warm hues by the golden candle light as he towers over both of you. Idly you lick your lips, wondering if he’ll let you suck him off, or if he has other plans.

“Hungry, so hungry our little _pinna_ ,” Ramiel says in a low tone. The tips of his fingers drag along your spine as he walks around to your head before getting onto his knees next to Michael. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Michael grins, catching your eyes. “Definitely. But he’s also so delicious,” he says, and turns his head to kiss Ramiel. It’s just as lust-inspiring as the first time, and the fact that Michael is comfortable initiating the kiss and not just letting Ramiel kiss him has you biting your lip, tempted to touch yourself at the sight, but preferring to revel in the torturous pace they seem intent on setting.

The kiss goes on, Michael reaching down to stroke Ramiel, causing the Fallen to groan into the archangels mouth, tongues dancing across the gap that you can see. Ramiel is the one who eventually pulls away, tongue swiping across his lips.

“I have to agree with you on your point as well,” he tells Michael, turning his brown eyes on you. “A true delicacy.”

“What should we do with our _pinna_? He seems intent on making us worry and creating problems where there are none,” Michael queries, his words resuming that caustic edge. You wince, guilt acting like a cold bucket of water.

Ramiel might genuinely be able to forgive you and move past your behavior, but Michael seems to be struggling. Not that Michael yelling at you is new. It had been one of the major catalysts the first time around, combined with Ramiel’s Fall.

“Do you have any input?” Ramiel asks you, elbowing Michael lightly. The other blonde scowls briefly, but his face clears as he refocuses on you.

Your mouth feels dry, contrasting with the way your palms slide across the wooden floor on a sheen of sweat. “I want you both to take me,” you say around your thick tongue, watching as Ramiel lazily drags his fingers over Michael’s side.

Seeing where your gaze is, Michael moves Ramiel’s hand to one of his nipples, gasping as the Fallen tweaks and pulls, the blonde’s back bowing, thrusting his chest up into Ramiel’s grasp. Ramiel grins, moving behind Michael.

“Bent over between us, stuffed full of cock?” Ramiel asks, bringing his other hand up to twist and pull on Michael’s left nipple in time with the right one. Michael starts to touch himself, running his thumb over the crown while he wraps his fingers loosely around the shaft. A soft whine escapes you. You want them both so bad, and they’re sitting just out of reach, teasing you, testing your restraint, possibly trying to teach you a lesson.

“Yes, please,” you gasp, needing some sort of relief, and soon. Michael’s head is thrown back, his pale skin contrasting against Ramiel’s darker tone, a beautiful dichotomy. Ramiel holds eye-contact with you as he lowers his lips to Michael’s neck, making the smaller angel squirm as he sucks and nips along the column of his throat, leaving a series of bruises in his wake.

After making what he deems enough marks, Ramiel pulls away, lips shiny with spit. “I think we can indulge him, don’t you think?” he asks Michael, releasing his abused nipples.

Michael takes a moment to collect his senses, eyes glassy, body flushed with need. “I want to have him come in my mouth, while he’s sucking on me, from you fucking him,” Michael states, getting onto his hands and knees and crawling towards you. “I want each thrust to drive you into my mouth while you moan around my cock. I want you to come on Ramiel’s cock, and I will swallow every—last—drop,” he purrs, finishing the sentence when he’s nose-to-nose with you.

“And I want you to remember that you are ours, and we will never let you go,” he adds, softer, gentler, a trace of his old insecurity in his words.

“Always,” you promise, and are rewarded with his lips on yours, his tongue sneaking between your lips, stroking along yours twice before he moves away. Michael drops onto his stomach, and then rolls onto his back, sliding under your body until you can feel his breath across your groin. You’re torn between looking at his bright red face and the almost equally flushed delight bobbing in front of yours.

“Think you boys can play nice until I get Grimsley ready?” The question has you craning your head, having lost track of Ramiel while Michael was getting in position. You find him holding a bottle in one hand, squeezing lube liberally onto his palm, warming it up before working it into you.

“I think, given Grimsley’s behavior, he needs to wait until we tell him he can come.” Michael’s voice is stifled from beneath you, but Ramiel appears to have no problems hearing him.

“I think that’s a given,” Ramiel agrees.

Ramiel kneels down behind you, soothing a hand over your buttocks, circling and teasing before he starts to work you open, going slower than he needs to, drawing it out until he’s verging on torture. There’s a rush of his corrupted Grace, helping clean and prepare you in combination with his fingers.

To further test the boundaries of your restraint, Michael leans up, licking and sucking—but not where he had promised, instead focusing on the skin of your abdomen. One hand comes up to fondle your sack, his pressure gentle and assured, far different from the first time he had attempted the maneuver.

Ramiel deliberately tries to avoid brushing over the bundle of nerves you desperately want him to stimulate, adding a second finger and still taking his sweet time.

You don’t mind, however, busy hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard on Michael’s length, enjoying the way the archangel gasps against your skin. Soon enough his hands move to grasp your waist, too lost in sensation to remember to be careful with their previous cargo.

 Michael licks over your tip, collecting the beads of liquid that have started to leak from it, lips brushing against sensitive skin, but he doesn’t take you in his mouth yet, waiting for Ramiel to start. You are a little concerned that the motion of Ramiel moving in you might make it difficult not to choke either of you below him, but after the way Michael had painted so vividly  how he wanted you to fall to pieces, you can’t deny him.

A sudden nip to the base of your neck, right over your tattoo, has you arching your back, almost pulling off of Michael entirely, incidentally thrusting against Michael’s cheek as you feel Ramiel’s fingers withdraw.

“Think he’s ready, Michael?” There’s a hand in your hair, petting over the fine strands, while the other one moves to your waist, clasping together with one of Michael’s.

“I—” Michael’s words are cut-off by a gasp as you take him to the base, ignoring your own temporary discomfort in lieu of enjoying the sounds you draw from Michael. Slowly you move back up, Ramiel’s hand still resting against the back of your head, letting you fantasize about him using you as a vessel to get Michael off, controlling the pace at which you pleasure the archangel.

You roll your tongue around his tip as Michael continues to make strangled little gasps, trying to speak but having difficulty through the haze of pleasure.

A low chuckle above you coincides with the hand in your hair trailing down your spine again, a calloused thumb pressing into your skin, feeling the shape of each vertebra before slipping off to the side and mirroring its compatriot, gripping your waist.

Heat presses against your entrance, and Ramiel’s voice purrs low in your ear. “I’ll take that as a yes. Happy anniversary, _pinna_.”

You don’t know how they’re communicating, but the exact moment he starts to penetrate you Michael slips you into his mouth, the dual sensation making your thighs tremble and the heat in your stomach turn from a low simmer to a roiling boil. Ramiel stops when he’s fully inside you, thumbs brushing in small circles over your sides as you and Michael continue to work each other with your mouths.

“I’ve missed you, love,” Ramiel murmurs, slowly pulling back until he barely remains inside you. Then he slams in, and this time he’s not playing around, his fingers digging into your flesh as he finally presses against the bundle of nerves he had been avoiding prior to now.

You almost choke, groaning around the flesh occupying your mouth, forcing yourself to take a deep breath through your nose, eyes watering a little. Michael is still bobbing up and down, his tongue trying to lave every centimeter that passes between his lips.

Ramiel grinds against you, making small motions of his hips to keep sending little jolts of pleasure through you, and it’s almost too much. Trapped between the two of them, one almost driving you into the other, is nearly too much, even though you’ve barely started.

Again you groan, your throat vibrating, and suddenly your mouth is flooded. The position you’re in isn’t great, but you manage to swallow some before you have to pull off, not wanting to ruin the evening by choking and passing out.

“You good?” a finger brushes along the sides of your mouth, cleaning off some of the excess as you cough and gasp for air.

“Yeah,” you wheeze out. There’s a lewd pop as Michael moves off you.

“Sorry for the lack of warning, _pinna_ ,” he mumbles. You don’t have to see his face to imagine how red it is.

“Glad you are enjoying yourself,” you respond, only a little hoarse.

“Speaking of,” Ramiel comments, and pull back before slapping his hips forward. Another wanton moan escapes you, unobstructed this time.

You think briefly about trying to clean Michael with your tongue, but now that Ramiel isn’t concerned with you potentially choking, he’s going hard and fast, then slow and tender, a variable rate you can’t anticipate. Michael resumes his earlier task, licking and sucking with gusto.

The two seem to be in some competition, trying to see who will finally push you over the edge. Lost in the sensation of heat filling you and surrounding you, you can’t tell who the winner is, except that you’re the one getting the prize anyways. All you know is that you’re shouting, arms shaking as you try to keep yourself upright, your orgasm hitting you with the force of a tsunami.

Michael’s throat moves around you, swallowing with an ease that he did not have when you entered this relationship, to be certain. Ramiel takes a few more strokes, his abuse of your oversensitive nerves still on the side of pleasure, before he too is coming, folding himself over your back and sinking his teeth into your shoulder as he rides out his own crescendo of pleasure.

As you come down from your high, Michael starts wiggling below you, extracting himself from under you. “I wish you could see yourself, right now, the way we see you,” Michael murmurs, sitting upright, using his thumb to clean the corners of his mouth.

He leans forward, but rather than kissing you, he starts licking over your cheeks, then your chin, cleaning up the remnants of his seed from your skin. Only when he’s satisfied you are passably clean does he kiss you, your tastes mingling.

Ramiel moves above you, slowly pulling out. A cloth brushes over your backside, warm and moist. It might be cheating to use his corrupted Grace, but you aren’t going to complain as he cleans you up.

Michael flops onto his back, still a mess. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, reaching up and tugging on the back of your neck, trying to get you to lie with him. You oblige, stretching out next to him, enjoying his body heat, ignoring the stickiness of your sweaty bodies.

A cloth hits Michael’s face, and you peel it off with a smile, revealing Michael’s scowl. It vanishes as you start cleaning him, playing with his nipples until they’re as stiff before working your way down his stomach. He’s still soft, but the gentle pants escaping him as you wipe him down assure you that he won’t be for long.

Another warmth joins you, pressed against your back. “That was good,” Ramiel compliments, fingers dancing across your ribs, before they slide over your waist and still, wrapped possessively around you.

“ _We_ were good,” Michael corrects, cupping your chin and running his thumb over your lip. He really is picking up a lot from Ramiel, though you hope he might try to take some more initiative in the future.

“I love you, both of you,” you whisper, tossing the cloth aside and taking Michael’s hand with your left hand, then Ramiel’s in your right. It involves some shifting so you can lie on your back, but you manage without elbowing either of them. Crossing your arms over your chest, you tuck your chin and nuzzle their crossed arms.

Two pairs of lips press against your cheeks. “We love you too, _pinna_ ,” Ramiel breathes.

“And we will continue to show you just how much,” Michael proclaims. “We have the whole weekend to ourselves, and I, for when, don’t intend on letting you out of my reach the entire time.”

A chuckle shakes your chest, a genuine expression of joy you had thought gone forever only hours earlier. “That sounds perfect,” you agree.

**Author's Note:**

> You can play the WIP on dashingdon.com, or https://dae-kalina.neocities.org/Son%20of%20Satan_%20The%20Mortal%20Coil.html. Follow it on https://sosthemortalcoil.tumblr.com/ or in the official Choice of Games forum.


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